


Young and Beautiful

by korik



Series: A Dissertation in Memories [5]
Category: Black Widow (Comics), Captain America (Comics), Captain America - All Media Types, Winter Soldier (Comics)
Genre: Alliteration, Domestic, Domestic Bliss, Domestic Fluff, Domesticity, F/M, Implied Sexual Content, Living Together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-07
Updated: 2014-04-07
Packaged: 2018-01-18 14:02:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1431154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/korik/pseuds/korik
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired/helped along by the song with the same title.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Young and Beautiful

He never says a thing when she feels like she eats all day to compensate for the hunger that comes with the added strength, endurance, and almost immortality. When the fridge is empty in the middle of the night, and he’s nursing a chocolate craving.

She never says a thing when he feels like he pops pills as though they were candy to deal with the pain his arm inflicts on him. When he takes one too many, too fast, and he gets sick to his stomach.

Instead, he goes out at odd hours, brings home takeout with a bottle of wine and candles, learns to cook so he can also wear just an apron and make her laugh, stocks the freezer, calls her princess, dear, and love.

Instead she dials up people he will never know and hands him pills, or holds his hair back when he throws up in the toilet. Spends at least an hour each time she sees him rubbing every last, throbbing inch of his frame, has the bath enlarged, calling him comrade, kid, and lover mine.

They leave each other notes in Russian, and he teaches her how to help him maintain his arm.

They still dance when the night is right, the band is live, and she’s feeling nostalgic and beautiful, when he’s feeling dashing and young. They dance to remember the good times and bad, those who died in the war, and the wars they still fight.

And somehow, still, they forget the flowers in the sill are drying, glimmering petals of red and white collecting slowly to the floor like a waterfall in slow motion. A spider has taken up residence there, catching the random fly and bit of light.

She tells him to leave it when they end up on the floor and his fingers are tangled with hers, red blossoming over the pillows they’ve dropped to the floor to create a makeshift bed since it’s too cold to go outside and they’ve had one too many.

They dream of nothing for they know that wakefulness contains the dream.


End file.
